


Nighttime

by SummerLeighWind



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brother Feels, Face Slapping, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerLeighWind/pseuds/SummerLeighWind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaning over the brat's cradle, he's met by a pair of teary green eyes. Weakly, the babe reaches out to Scotland, his lower lip still trembling. Swatting the child's small hands away, Scotland hisses, "I ain't pickin' ya up, brat."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nighttime

A pitiful sob can be heard from across the hall and with a growl, a red-haired boy tosses in his bed. He pulls his pillow over his head to block out the noise, but another desperate wail penetrates the cloth and feathers. Pressing the pillow harder against his ear, the boy begins to wonder when the brat will give up. Hasn't he figured out by now that no one is coming? He isn't like his brothers, he's not going to take pity on him. Not after he killed _his_ mother.

Normally, Wales or Ireland would have gone and taken care of him by now, but the two had gone off earlier in the day to hunt and hadn't returned by nightfall. (Scotland's planning to get pay them back for making him watch the brat _and_ for his lost sleep once they turn up). As another whimper sounds, Scotland grits his teeth. That brat has no right to cry. He is alive and well while Britannia is dead because of him and that stupid Rome. Suddenly, a shriek fills the air, unable to stand it any longer, Scotland shoots out of bed.

Stepping onto the cold ground, he curses. Only that stupid, stubborn, brat would spend half the night crying. Stomping out of the room, he walks down the hall towards the brat's room. Stopping in front of the brat's open doorway, Scotland trudges over to the cradle where the brat is kept. Leaning over the cradle, Scotland is met by a pair of teary green eyes. The babe reaches out to Scotland, his lower lip still trembling. Swatting the child's small hands away, Scotland hisses, "I ain't pickin' ya up brat." Several more tears leak from the babe's eyes, leaving wet streaks that seem to glow silver in the moonlight on his cheeks.

Scowling at the infant, Scotland whispers, "Things used ta be good before ya were born. Momma Britannia taught me an' my brothers ta hunt, and would sing us songs." The scowl on the redheaded boy's face lessens to a frown. Shaking his head angrily, Scotland continues, "Then, when that damn Rome showed up, he went an' ruined everythin'. Momma got sick an' weaker as time went by, then _you_ showed up!" snarls Scotland. He glares hatefully at the babe watching him from his cradle. Clenching his hands into fists, Scotland says, "Momma cried when ya came, she told us she didn' have much time left an' that ya would take her place. She told us ta look out for ya and ta make sure Rome didn' get ya." Scotland stares at the brat who has settled and is now staring up at Scotland with such a serene expression it makes his blood boil. This brat stole his mother and yet he could look at him without any guilt or shame. Reaching out to slap the child, Scotland screams, "I wish Wales an' Ireland would a let me give ya ta Rome! Ya don' deserve ta be representin' Momma's lands!"

A smack vibrates in the air as Scotland's hand collides with the infant's pale cheek. Immediately following, a terrible cry fills the room as the babe clutches at his hurt cheek. He looks up at the red-haired boy, uncomprehending as to why he had hurt him. Had he done something wrong? Through his own tear filled eyes he sees tears slip from the others eyes. The redhead continues to yell, but the small boy is unable to comprehend most of it. He doesn't understand he only wants someone to be with him. He doesn't like it when he is alone. Continuing to cry, he reaches out to the other boy seeking the comfort he so desperately needs.

"What don' ya get ya brat! I hate ya!" shouts Scotland as the little babe holds out his arms towards him once again. "It's yer fault! It's not fair, ya look too much like her! She was strong an' powerful, she should be the one alive! Not ya, a pitiful, useless thing!" he finishes, voice cracking.

Now standing on unsteady feet, the babe bears his beseeching hands to Scotland, pleading in a thick voice, "Brudda! Brudda!"

Scotland gazes down at the child stupefied. The thing called him brother. Is that what the little brat is? His brother? As Scotland looks into the glassy green eyes for the first time, he doesn't see his dead mother, but his brother. Everything about the babe isn't just his mother, but his brothers and him as well. As the infant wails again for him, Scotland picks the child up, cradling him close. Brushing a finger down the brat's wet cheek, Scotland murmurs, "Oi, it's all right." The babe stares up with glossy eyes, his small body trembling with suppressed sobs. Patting the infant's back, Scotland carries him back with him to bed.

Falling onto his now chilly bed, Scotland rests the infant on his narrow chest as he tugs the blankets over them. Brushing his fingers through the boy's unruly blond locks, Scotland says, "G'night, England." The infant quickly drifts off to sleep against his older brother's warm chest, his tiny fingers placed inside his mouth. Scotland realizes, as he pet England's soft hair, he hasn't ever called the babe by his name until now. Lifting his head to press a kiss to his brother's hair, Scotland decides, perhaps, England isn't evil after all.

**-v-v-v-**

"I'm _not_ the one who got us lost!" grumbles Wales as they approach their modest home.

"Oh yeah? Then explain ta me how come we had ta spend the night in the woods after _someone_ said _he_ knew a shortcut that would get us home quicker," snipes Ireland as he moves to kick his brother's leg.

Easily dodging the attack, Wales says, "I just hope Scotland didn't do something to England while we were gone..."

Ireland frowns, Scotland wouldn't have done anything to England, would he? He knows his older brother doesn't like the babe, but England is hardly old enough to talk, let alone be a threat to the Scotsman in any way. Though, that hasn't ever stopped Scotland from being spiteful towards the infant before. Speeding up, Ireland says, "Lets hurry."

Giving a swift nod of his head, Wales follows behind his older brother.

"Uh, hey! We're back!" calls Wales as they walk into their home. It's quiet. A bit too quiet. Usually Scotland is up by now, England as well. Strolling down the hall to England's room Wales peaks in to see the babe's cradle empty. "Ireland, England's not in his room!" Wales cries.

Bolting down the hall to Scotland's room, Ireland swings the door open. He's ready to beat answers out his older brother to find the whereabouts of their youngest brother. But, to his surprise, he finds England sitting up on the bed. The infant glances to Ireland his eyes bright. "Brudda!" he coos, reaching out to Ireland.

Confused, Ireland tip-toes over to England, easily lifting the little child into his arms. Seeing that Scotland is still asleep, Ireland decides against waking him. His brother is rather short tempered when he's woken up before he is ready. Still staring at his sleeping brother, Ireland calls out to Wales, "Wales! I found England! He's in here with Scotland!"

Wales quickly makes his way to Scotland's rooms. Looking in he sees Ireland with a content England in his arms staring at Scotland's sleeping form. "What do you think happened last night?" Wales asks Ireland.

The redhead shakes his head. "No clue, though England doesn't seem any worse for ware." Turning his gaze to the infant held in his arms, Ireland questions halfheartedly. "Care to tell us about last nights events England?"

Bouncing in his older brother's holds England crows, "Brudda!" All the while pointing at Scotland.

Wales face slowly lights up with a smile. "I have a feeling if we ask Scotland later we won't get an answer. But if England is calling Scotland 'brother' then it must have been a good night."

Ireland grins at Wales. "I bet yer right, want ta go make breakfast?"

"Yeah, let's," agrees Wales. Together, the three leave Scotland's room. Wales and Ireland begin discussing what they want to make for breakfast.

England twists in Ireland's grip and catches sight of the faint smile on the Scotland's face. Waving a pudgy arm, England screeches, "Brudda!"

Adjusting his grip on England, Ireland huffs, "Scotland will be up later, ye'll have ta do with us fer now."

Still feigning sleep Scotland has to stifle a snort at his brother's comment.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and please leave a kudo and/or comment to let me know what you think!


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